by Robert Berke
"And what interest is that?" Bayron asked still looking down.
"Here's part of that answer right now," Smith said. The image on the monitor changed to a view of the executive parking lot at the SmithCorp Building. Hermelinda's car was clearly visible pulling into her designated parking spot.
Dr. Bayron looked at the monitor and saw what Smith was "seeing" through the security camera in the parking lot.
Smith continued to speak. "Accessing traffic and security cams is probably the most entertaining thing I've discovered since coming online. Most of them have no security at all, you just have to find the host and that's it. Even the ones that have security have terrible security. Because I can literally see in binary code, getting through firewalls is like picking a lock, from inside the lock. Did you know, doctor, that because I can visualize things from their pure data forms, and because my memory is flawless, I can literally watch and memorize the activities of dozens of cameras all at once? I'm a veritable ‘eye in the sky.'"
"You're frightening me, Elly." Bayron said, now looking directly at Smith's camera eye.
"Then you're really not going to want to hear this. Want to see what the President is doing right now?"
"What?" Bayron asked, although he had heard perfectly well.
"I was able to tap the President's personal webcam. Nothing in the oval office or anything like that, but the one he has in the office in the residential wing where he Skypes with his aunt and his old friends."
Bayron thought for a moment and then looked up and smiled into the camera, "You know what Elly," he said, "I'd be lying if I said I didn't have some kind of voyeuristic interest in seeing that."
"Attaboy, Dougy," Smith said as the image on the monitor changed again, this time to a view of an empty, but very neat office. "You know, this thing is done, you might as well let yourself enjoy it. President's not in. I also found the security camera inside the Moviestar club where that girl Kitty used to work. I didn't even know they had one. I don't think the customers are supposed to know that they're being watched. That one is usually a lot of fun. You want to see that?" Smith didn't wait for Bayron to answer before he changed the image on the monitor.
Bayron chuckled as the grainy security camera image of the inside of the sleazy topless bar emerged on the monitor in front of him. He could barely make out the image of a woman gyrating listlessly on a little stage and the tops of two heads, both with thinning hair sitting by the rail.
"When I was an intern at County," Bayron said, with a little light in his eyes, "we always had kids coming in that had taken some recreational drug or another and were nervous because they were having unexpected effects. I had one guy, I remember him so well, who had taken mescaline, they used to call it ‘microdots' and his vision turned all brown. No colors, just varying shades of brown he told me. He said it had been that way for at least 10 hours. You know what we used to tell people like that? We would tell them, ‘look, you already took the drug. You can't untake it so you might as well enjoy the trip.'"
"Spot on, my good sir," Smith replied. "We're in this place now, and there's no going back. At least not for me. So we might as well enjoy this trip." Smith noticed Bayron had a relaxed look about him. He was clearly enjoying the moment. Smith was overjoyed to see his friend looking so at ease. It had been a long time since he had seen him that way. "I wish they had a better camera, Doug. This is the best picture I can get."
"Frankly I'm more amused by the idea of what you're doing than by anything happening on that stage there." Bayron said. Is this how I learned to stop worrying and love the bomb? He thought to himself, also recognizing that at some point he felt a tremendous weight lift from his shoulders. He had forgotten in that moment that he was a mental patient recovering from a psychotic episode, that he was a prisoner in this hospital room dependant upon another for any freedom he had, he had even for the moment forgotten about the little boy who he watched die in agony as he helplessly cradled his head in his arms.
Hermelinda stepped in at this most inopportune moment. "I hope I'm not interrupting something, gentlemen." She said with faux formality.
Smith quickly turned the monitor back to the oscilliscopic wave and as he did so a funny little noise that sounded like ‘erp' emanated from the speakers. Smith and Bayron both laughed a little each recognizing in themselves and in each other that feeling of being caught with a hand in the cookie jar. But Smith's reaction had been fast enough that Hermelinda hadn't seen what was on the screen. "No, darling," Smith said, "the good doctor and I were just catching up with each other a little."
Hermelinda look squarely at Dr. Bayron and studied his face for a moment. "You're looking good today, Doctor. This is the most engaged I've seen you look since I picked you up at the hospital. how do you feel?"
"I feel pretty good, Hermelinda. Your husband really has a way of shaking me out of the blues sometimes."
"I'm glad to hear that Douglas. Let's get Dr. Beedle on the phone and see what he'll authorize."
It was already after seven when Bobby dropped Vakhrusheva back off at the Hampton Inn. Vakhrusheva, like most Russians, had a stomach of iron; but he did have terrible heartburn from the spicy chicken wings he had eaten with Bobby. He was eager to take an antacid. He had purchased some Tums along with some Extra-Strength Tylenol at the airport when he had landed and now he swallowed two of the Tylenol and chewed up two Tums and then washed the whole meal of pills down with a generous swig of Vodka straight from the bottle. I will bring this back to Russia, these buffalo wings, he thought, not regretting the heartburn at all.
He had actually been impatient to open the bag that Alice had given him in the nursing home, but he had become so preoccupied with the wings that he had almost forgotten about the bag containing what Alice had described as Mrs. Oronov's effects.
He emptied the contents of the bag onto the little writing table in his room. The photo album was the largest item in the bag and was one of only two items that wasn't in a sealed greeting card style envelope. He moved the album to the side since he already knew what was in there.
He opened the first envelope. It contained an ID card which was strung from a blue nylon necklace and a plain white piece of paper. He read from the paper which explained what could be accessed with the magnetic strip on the back of the card. The card itself said SmithCorp Industries across the top in English and then in smaller type in Cyrillic letters. The ID had his picture on it and the name "Mikhael ‘Mickey' Oronov," a manager in the Russian branch of SmithCorp. Clever, he thought. That will certainly get me past the front door guards.
Next he opened an envelope which contained a copy of the SmithCorp New Employee Policy and Procedures Handbook and thumbed through it. Smart again, he thought. He would look at that closely before he walked in the front door. Next he opened an envelope that contained a single sheet of paper with a handdrawn sketch of a notebook on it. In handwriting next to the sketch were the words, "missing notebook." In another envelope was a piece of paper with several keys scotch taped to it. On the paper near each key was a note. One said 7th floor bathroom, another said hospital room supply cabinet, and another said executive office cleaning crew master key. Another envelope contained photos and descriptions of several SmithCorp employees in the Russian office.
The last item in the bag was the only other item that was not in a sealed envelope. It was a simple spiral notebook with a black cover. A post-it note inside the front cover said, "Notebook. Identical to Bayron's missing notebook." The pages were blank. Not completely identical he assumed.
He lay down in the bed and took another belt of Vodka and began thinking of his next step. The chicken wings were dancing in his stomach. He still didn't regret eating them.
Julian Waterstone's big black Buick sedan exited the New York State Thruway at the first exit for Cohoes, drove past some abandoned London-style row houses and turned right onto 7th Street and then left into a brand new industrial complex. Trailing close behind the sedan was a small s
ilver Japanese car being driven by Josey Cruz. It was about 8:00 at night. The sedan pulled into a parking spot near the main gate to the complex, while Josey drove straight in. Toward the back of the complex he found what he was looking for. Kitty's car. It was parked in front of a door that said, "KO Data Systems" on the front, and there was a light on inside. He then continued to drive past the buildings in the park to see if there was anything he could use as a pretext for being there.
Inside, Kitty sat at her desk studying the technical manual the installers had left and looking everything up on the Internet that she didn't understand. She had determined to understand how her data center worked and was prepared to do whatever it took. All she knew for certain was that it was going to take a very, very long time. Maybe I should hire that technician to teach me, she thought. Every so often she would look up at the window into the dust-free, climate controlled computer room and see that all of the lights that were supposed to be blinking were actually blinking. She knew from studying the manuals what all the different machines in there were called. She just didn't understand exactly what they all did.
Josey drove his car back around to the front and reported to Gonzales. Gonzales thought for a moment and then said to Cruz. "Okay, you go in. We have no excuse for being here and I'm not ready to blow cover yet. We'll stay here and monitor the wire. Josey got back in his car and drove to the rear of the complex and parked next to Kitty's car. He got out and jimmied open the lock to the driver's side door of her car and turned on her headlights. Then he relocked the car door and walked to and knocked on the door for KO Data Systems.
Kitty was startled by the knock. "Hello?" She said tentatively through the still shut door."
"Hi," said Cruz. "I was driving by and there's a car out here with its headlights on. I just wanted to let someone know."
"Oh, thank you," Kitty said looking through the peephole on the door. She saw a very pleasant looking, well dressed man, about her own age and behind him she could see the headlights glowing on the front of her little car. There was something familiar about him. She thought for sure she had seen him before. Her years of dancing in clubs had sensitized her ability to assess risks and she quickly determined she was not in danger from this kind stranger. She opened the door very slowly though.
"Make sure it starts," Cruz said, "I don't know how long the lights have been on. I have some jumper cables if you need a jump."
Kitty came outside leaving the door to KO Data Systems open behind her. She unlocked her car and got inside. She turned off the lights and tried to start the engine. It started right up. She turned the engine back off and walked over to where Cruz was standing. "Thanks," she said. "I'm really surprised it started, they must have been on for hours."
"I'm Joe," Cruz said, extending his hand. "It looks like we're going to be neighbors."
"Katherine O'Malley," Kitty said extending her hand to his and shaking it firmly. "Are you a tenant here?"
"No, not yet," Josey said. "But I have a little catalog company that I'm planning on moving in here. Is this your company?"
"Yes. We're still setting up though. We're brand new." Kitty answered.
"What kind of data services do you do?" Josey said leaning in to see into the office.
"We store backups of medical records," Kitty replied as she had been instructed.
"It looks like the future in there." Josey said. "I bet you can store a lot of data on that rig."
"Do you know what a exabyte is?" Kitty replied using knowledge she had just gained in the past hour.
"No. I've never heard of that." Josey replied.
"Its one million terabytes. A terabyte is a thousand gigabytes. So, if a downloaded movie takes up about a gigabyte, I could store a thousand, million movies."
"Do you really expect to have that much data to store?" Josey asked. It was clear Kitty was showing off some new knowledge. He found it...cute.
"No, not at all. Its got what we call ‘multiple redundancies' so it can store the same data in different places so if one part of the system goes down or even the whole system, we don't lose any data."
"How does that work?" Josey asked, knowing that he was pressing his luck.
"Now, Mr. Joe, I can't be telling you all of our secrets," Kitty said with a wink, feeling awfully clever for thinking of a way not to have to say ‘I don't know.'
"Can I buy you a drink?" Josey asked.
Kitty looked out at the sky and noticed the sun was setting. She looked at Josey and thought about it for a moment. Then she smiled and said, "meet me at Friday's on Grand in 30 minutes. I've just got to shut things down here before I leave."
"Don't disappoint me, Ms. O'Malley," Josey replied as he walked back to his car.
"Call me Kitty," She responded. "Everyone calls me Kitty."
Gonzales and Julian were already headed to the Friday's parking lot to find an inconspicuous place to park that was still close enough to monitor whatever further conversations might happen there. As they drove, Julian made an audible noise that sounded like ‘hmph'.
"What is it, Waterstone?" Gonzales asked.
"Exabytes." Julian responded. "I know I'm not the international spy in this car, but…" he paused for a moment. "Listen, when she said exabytes, I knew that term because Smith had used it during his press conference. He said that the data load of his mind was measured in exabytes. It's the only time I've ever heard that word before. Call me a damn fool, but I'll bet you dime to dollars that there's a complete copy of Smith over there."
"And if there is," Gonzales replied, "I'll give you double or nothing that no one at SmithCorp knows about it."
Julian thought for a moment. "I wouldn't take that bet," he replied.
CHAPTER XVIII.
An anonymous remailer sent an encoded message to Sam Takahashi's hushmail account. Sam pulled out his old and frayed copy of the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy that he had used to encode messages to his schoolmate when they were just little boys and began transcribing. After he had worked out the entire message, Takahashi made a call to his friend in Mexico who in turn made a call to a friend in Iceland.
The following morning a shipping container containing the duplicate parts for the Cohoes data center was on its way to the port of Reykjavik.
CHAPTER XIX.
Avon Crest lay halfway between Schenectady and Latham. An above average but by no means affluent neighborhood of matching colonial style homes. As Bobby drove Vakhrusheva down Inman Road toward the home Sharky shared with his mother, a group of boys playing street hockey quickly moved their nets off to the side in response to one of their member's shouting, ‘CAR!'-- their well established code word for clearing the street when anyone saw a car coming. Bobby gave them a wave, making sure that his hand blocked his face as he did so. Vakhrusheva smiled in recognition of his colleague's superb training and professionalism.
Bobby pulled the car into the driveway of the home at the address listed in Sharky's dossier. The house was neat and inconspicuous: well trimmed lawn, a couple of older trees. There were no other plants or flowers. Someone had spread pebbles where one would otherwise have expected to see some aesthetic plantings close to the house. Vakhrusheva walked up the cement path that led to the front door and rang the bell. He could hear the television playing in the background. He waited at the door for a minute or so before he rang the bell again.
He could hear some movement in the house. Then, through the door, a woman's voice. "No one here." The words were in English, but Vakhrusheva recognized the heavy Armenian accent. Her heavy guttural pronunciation of the "h" in the word "here" was distinctly Eastern Armenian. Vakhrusheva adopted a Western Armenian accent in his reply hoping that in doing so his Russian tongue would be less noticeable to the lady behind the door.
"I was supposed to meet Sharky here," Vakhrusheva said.
"Sako not here." The woman replied, still in accented English, "come back later." A large, friendly, ruddy face peeked from behind a curtain at the side of the do
or.
Vakhrusheva recognized the kind of unfaltering paranoia which fomented and became endemic during Armenia's unstable years after the fall of the Soviet Union. It was also the kind of paranoia which signaled to Vakhrusheva that the aging lady behind the curtain was home alone. He dredged deep to exude the kind of charm and sincerity he knew would be necessary to get inside the house without attracting the attention of the neighbors. "Okay," he said in his fake Western Armenian accent through his fake smile, "I don't know when I can come back though, so can you just let him know that Sergio from the community center came by about the earthquake fundraiser and that if he's still interested to give me a call." He turned as if to leave.
"Does Sako have your number?" The voice inside asked, finally switching to its native language.
Vakhrusheva turned back, and looked through the little side window and made eye contact with the woman inside. He let his eyes smile for him. "Actually, maybe you could give him these materials and save me a trip back here later. My office is all the way in Watervliet." He pointed to his briefcase and pretended to be looking for papers as he said this.
The eyes in the window sized him up again and finally, Sharky's mother said, "Okay, give me a second to get the lock."
Vakhrusheva sized up the situation instantly and decided that getting the door open a little bit just to hand the papers through was as good as he was going to get. As soon as her face moved away from the window, Vakhrusheva signaled to Bobby who was still in the car. He heard the tepid click of the deadbolt opening and saw the door handle turn. As soon as he saw the latch clear the strike plate, he took a step back and kicked the door with all the power that accompanies a lifetime of military style training. The door swung in on its hinges with blinding speed and incredible force. Vakhrusheva heard Mrs. Ohangangian fall to the floor. He glanced quickly back to Bobby who gave him the thumbs up to let him know that no one had seen. Vakhrusheva held up two fingers signaling Bobby to wait two minutes before coming into the house. As he stepped over the threshold into the house, he drew his gun from his coat pocket and trained the barrel right between Mrs. Ohangangian's eyes.
